Bad Penny Green
by dances-with-cacti
Summary: "As Dean walked out from behind the chair, he took a knife from Crowley's tray of instruments and drummed the flat side of it against his palm. With his back to Castiel, he paused, considering the stone wall in front of him. After a moment, he turned back, looking between both demon and angel. "Alastair used to call me an artist," he said, "Did you know that?""
1. Prologue

Dear Readers: Welcome to "Bad Penny Green", Book II of the "Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain" trilogy. If you are new to this story, I encourage you to go my page and start with the first book in this tale, "Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain." Things will make a lot more sense if you do. If you are a returning reader, it's great to have you back! As you can see, this story is rated M, whereas the previous book was rated T. The rating for "Bad Penny Green" is not without cause. This book is going to be very dark, though it will be shorter than the first installment. If you are bothered by violence or other adult content, you might want to skip this book and return once I've posted Book III, titled "The Raven and the Nine." I'll make sure you're still able to jump in to that book without having read this one. Without further ado, please enjoy the story!

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Bad Penny Green

Prologue

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Neatly dressed in a fresh black suit, Crowley, King of Hell, strolled leisurely down the cobbled corridors of his fortress, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets. He whistled as he went along, his mood appropriately cheery. At his heels skulked a monstrous black hound with red eyes and smoke for fur, which he sometimes kept by his side for company. It was an enormous creature that growled when it breathed, its tree-trunk throat collared with a belt of leather as wide as a man's hand, but Crowley led it along as casually as any mortal pet. Together they meandered towards the throne room, their path lit by stone braziers, basins burning with hushed orange flame.

When they arrived at the great hall where Crowley kept Court and housed his throne, the towering double doors unlocked and swung inwards, seemingly of their own accord. Crowley entered, pleased to be home.

The King's footmen had prepared the room ahead of his arrival. A pair of them still remained, lurking in alcoves on either side of the hall, standing at attention like suits of armor. They'd dusted the room and decorated it with macabre canvases and wood block prints of medieval torture devices. There was a fire in the hearth behind the throne, and the flagstones were lined with rich, oxblood rugs. All that was left to do was for Crowley to snap his fingers and spark the many wall sconces to life, which he did as he turned sit down. The room was flooded with light and dancing shadow.

Crossing his legs, Crowley leaned back into the embrace of his large stone throne. With a sharp shepherd's whistle, he called his hellhound to him, the animal flopping down at his feel with a huff and closing its eyes to sleep. Without needing to be asked, a dark-haired demon in red heels and a pencil shirt appeared briefly beside the King to place a polished glass of liquor in his waiting hand. Crowley waved her off without thanking her, putting the tumbler under his nose and giving the aged Lagavulin a swirl before taking a long, savoring sip.

Swallowing, the King sighed, smacking his lips. He'd had always been partial to malt whisky, but tonight the spirit tasted especially delicious. Most drinks did when served with a twist of success.

He took another sip and then called to one of his two attending footmen.

"You there!" he said, and the demon ran to kneel before the throne, "Fetch the whore."

The demon hesitated, blinking. "The whore, sire?"

Crowley rolled his eyes.

"Yes, you witless grape, my _mother_ , the _whore_. Fetch her from her room and bring her here. And make sure she brings a seat with her! She winges if she's made to stand, and I'm in too good a mood for complaints."

"Yes, sire."

"And you!" Crowley called the second footman from his alcove, "I want _you_ to have the guards bring my prisoners up from the dungeon."

The demon blanched, but bowed.

"Aye, sire," he replied, then turned quickly to hide his fearful expression.

One behind the other, both of the King's attendants took off to their respective tasks. Crowley swirled his drink and sat back to wait, listening to the bestial snore of the hellhound at his feet.

"Let the games begin," he muttered, and drained his glass.

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Reviews are loved.

~DWC


	2. Day 0

Dear Readers: Please enjoy the next chapter.

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Bad Penny Green

Day 0

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Rowena was the first to arrive.

As the great hall's double doors whisked opened, the witch moved across the threshold with the silent grace of satin drapery stirred by a breeze. Her posture was impeccable, her face the picture of arcane haughtiness.

As always, Crowley found everything about his mother to be violently irritating.

A big Slavic brute with a shaved head followed Rowena into the hall, carrying an overstuffed, gold-gilt settee in his blunt, dinner plate hands. The piece was vaguely baroque and explicitly hideous, and Crowley hated it. Which is why, of course, his mother had requested that particular bit of furniture in the first place. He sighed as Rowena settled daintily upon her settee, stewing at the smirk that played around the corners of her mouth.

"And how are you, mother dearest?" he drawled, "Feeling _comfortable_?"

Rowena flashed a brilliant smile, flipped her hair and responded in kind.

"Why, I'm rested and well, thank you, son!" she said, "You're _such_ a good boy for asking."

Crowley smiled tightly. "Not at all."

"To what do I owe the pleasure of the King's call?" Rowena asked.

Crowley opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted as the hall's enormous doors burst open once more. The demon King nodded towards the two prisoners—one hunter, one angel—that were being hauled towards his throne.

"You're _insurance_ ," Crowley told the witch. He eyed one of his two captives with particular caution. "I don't trust that spellwork of yours to quash Winchester's power for even half as long as you said it would."

Rowena sat back, indignant.

" _Well_ ," she huffed, "'trust' aside, my arcane abilities are a matter of personal pride. I'd never exaggerate my competence."

Crowley rolled his eyes.

"This isn't about you overestimating your _own_ abilities, mother," he hissed, "this is about you potentially underestimating _his_."

He lifted a finger from his armrest to point towards the half-dozen guards who were struggling to restrain a bucking and furious Dean Winchester. The hunter was shackled hand-and-foot and had duct tape plastered across his mouth, but somehow he still managed to keep landing violent blows against his captors. At times, it seemed his goal was to fight his way through his guards and tear apart the demons holding Castiel; at others, it seemed he was just out to do as much damage as possible.

Rowena was forced to shrug her shoulders in acknowledgment.

"He _is_ a tad bit feisty, isn't he?" she mused.

Crowley scoffed.

"Woman, you've been spared the majority of the decade I've spent dealing with the Winchester brothers and their pet angel. Believe me, you don't know the half of it."

He turned to his guards.

"You cowards had best quit lollygagging and get those two secure before I decide to let my hound here turn you into Alpo."

The hellhound at Crowley's feet twitched an ear and opened one eye, letting out a cavernous rumble deep in its chest.

The guards looked up at their king with panicked expression, their eyes flashing black with fear. Gulping collectively, they redoubled their efforts, beating down the berserk hunter until they were able to anchor his chains to an iron grate in the floor. Castiel was decidedly less of a chore for them. Either refusing to struggle or simply unable to, the angel allowed the demons to force him onto his knees and bolt his chains into the same grate holding Dean in place.

Crowley pointed to Dean.

"Take his muzzle off," he ordered.

One demon tangled his fingers into the hunter's hair while another one tore the tape from his mouth. Dean took a brief moment to work the stiffness out of jaw before lunging to the side and trying to sink his teeth into the guard closest to him.

"That's enough," Crowley called. He snapped his fingers.

With oily relief in their black eyes, the narrow-faced demons clinging to Dean broke apart like a clot of rats and scurried off into the shadows. Freed from their weight, the hunter reared back and thrashed in his warded irons, his eyes shifting and dark. Blood ran down into his hands as the bindings cut his skin.

With his elbow propped up on the armrest of his throne, Crowley pressed his fingers into his temple and sighed.

"Squirm all you like, mate. I'll just wait here until you tire yourself out. I've got all the time in the world."

Dean bucked at his chains a few more times before he cried out in frustration and collapsed forward over his knees, panting heavily. He said nothing, just bled slowly from his wrists and the cut above his eye where one of Crowley's guards had socked him and broken the skin.

Beside him, Castiel let out a damp cough, which Dean ignored.

"What'd you drag us up here for, Crowley, huh?" the hunter snarled, "You gonna to feed us to your pet?"

The demon King let out a rare laugh.

"Now _there's_ an idea," he chuckled, "That'd be a bit poetic, wouldn't it? A full circle sort of thing. Oi, did you hear him, Dahmer? Ay. Dahmer! Wakey wakey, you lazy throw rug!"

Crowley nudged his hellhound's rump with the toe of his polished oxford. The beast stirred, its red eyes blinking open. With a chuff, it lifted its wide, wolfish head from its forepaws to turn and look up at its master. Crowley reached his hand into a jar beside his throne and withdrew a fleshy organ of unknown provenance. He tossed it at his pet, the animal catching it deftly, tail thumping against the dais as it swallowed the offal without chewing.

"Good puppy," Crowley cooed. He leaned down to pat the hound's muscled flanks. The dog rumbled contentedly.

"Now," the king said, sitting back to study his prisoners, "You do beg an interesting question, Mr. Winchester. Whatever _shall_ I do with you two? The possibilities do test the limits of one's imagination."

Dean jerked his head in Castiel's direction.

"Well, you won't be doing anything with _him_ unless you get him some help. He can't heal with that bullet that's still in him. He's dying."

Crowley considered the hunter carefully.

"You don't seem terribly concerned about that," he said slowly.

Dean spit some blood onto the floor and sneered, shooting the angel a side-long glare.

"I tend to be less sympathetic when pissed," he growled.

Rowena made a small sound from beside the throne and leaned forward. Crowley turned to her.

"What is it?" he demanded.

The witch nodded towards Dean.

"Hold out your arm," she ordered the hunter, "the one with the mark."

"Make me," Dean snapped.

Rowena looked at Crowley. Crowley nodded to her and shifted his gaze towards Castiel. He narrowed his eyes. Instantly, the angel seized on a gasp of pain, his skin alive with burning sigils. Too exhausted to scream, he collapsed on his side fell into a bout of bloody coughing, moaning through clenched teeth when he had the breath.

Dean's jaw pulsed as he ground his teeth. He refused to look at Castiel, but his face twitched each time the angel let out a groan. Crowley stared him down, waiting. At last, the hunter caved.

"Fine," Dean spat, and held out his blade arm as far as his chains would allow. Crowley blinked and released Castiel, joining Rowena in the examination of her seal. One of the runes encircling the Mark of Cain was giving off a green, sputtering glow.

As they watched, it fizzled off Dean's skin and disappeared.

The witch sat back, chewing her lip.

"Well, you weren't wrong," she admitted, "my seal isn't holding up nearly as well as I'd hoped. His fury is burning the runes right off."

"Alright, then, how do we stop it?" Crowley asked.

Rowena tapped a pale finger against her lips.

"Hm. Well, the _best_ solution is stop making him so angry, but I don't know how plausible _that_ is."

"Fat chance," Dean barked.

Crowley glared at him, "Hush."

"A suggestion, if I _may_ , you're Highness," Rowena interjected, "If the purpose of all this is to drag out then length of time you have to exact revenge against these boys, then it might be prudent to let me tend to the angel's wounds so he doesn't expire before you've had a chance to have your fun. You could toss Winchester into the dungeon in the meantime, let him cool his head for a spell. It might even help slow the weakening of that seal."

Crowley sat back and raised an eyebrow, considering his mother's recommendation. He looked closely at Castiel, who was laying barely conscious on the floor, before letting his eyes slide over to Dean. The demon King's gaze worried around the mark on the hunter's arm.

"Fine," he conceded at last, "Get the angel well enough that torturing him isn't a complete disappointment. I'll have my guards throw Dean in with Bundy. That ought to keep him occupied."

Rowena nodded graciously and turned to her big, bald attendant, ordering him quietly to have Castiel brought to her chambers. The hulking demon bowed and went to unchain the angel, throwing Castiel's limp form over his shoulder.

Dean sat staring at Crowley. He wrinkled his nose as the demon king summoned guards to drag him away.

"Who the hell is _Bundy_?" the hunter demanded.

Crowley just smiled.

* * *

Dean bucked and kicked and gnashed his teeth as his guards hauled him bodily down the hallway. He strung together every foul word he knew and cursed so violently that even one of the demons finally took offense and smacked him across the mouth. Dean didn't care. He was pissed, his rage potent and omnidirectional. He hated everyone, from his dead dad to the Devil himself, but with the chains and the demons holding him back, he couldn't manage to land a satisfying punch.

It was beyond frustrating.

Eventually, despite his best efforts to make himself the underworld's biggest pain in the ass, Dean's captors succeeded in bringing to the edge of large metal grate set into the floor.

"What is this, your Rancor Pit?" Dean snarked.

The demons snorted and grinned nastily. They didn't answer his question.

Pulling a lever, the guards drew back the metal grate and kicked Dean unceremoniously down into the dark hole beneath it. Dean sucked in a breath as he was hit by sick sensation of falling. He tumbled rapidly down a steep stone chute for several seconds before plowing to an ungraceful stop against a hard-packed dirt floor. The dust that rose from his impact stank of shit and blood.

The clang of the grate being dropped back into place echoed down into the antechamber as Dean got to his feet. He looked up. Over his head, a massive set of bars caged in the entire pit. Beyond them, he could make out long stone benches that stacked in an arch away from the pit's edge. Bowls of orange fire burned along the walls, and clusters of black-eyed demons muttered and stirred where they sat. Dean saw money and chits of paper changing hands, then caught the prating sound of a bookie taking overs and unders on a fight.

 _His_ fight, the hunter realized.

He'd been dumped into a ring.

From the far side of the enclosure, a black mass shifted, rumbled, and rose heavily to its feet.

Dean clenched his jaw.

"Oh, so I was right!" he hollered out, "This _is_ your fucking Rancor Pit!"

The creature in the shadow shuffled and growled.

Dean took a step back. He watched as, with a shake of his loose black pelt, "Bundy" emerged from the shadows and stepped into the hot firelight.

"Huh," the hunter bit out, "So Dahmer has a big brother. Got it."

Bundy was, by far, the biggest hellhound Dean had ever seen. The hunter swallowed in spite of himself. Dropping into a crouch, he kept his back to the wall as he and Bundy began to slowly circle one another.

"Boy," Dean breathed, "you sure are one _ugly_ sumbitch, you know that?"

In reply, the hellhound's black, ropey lips peeled back off his teeth, gathering in damp knots above his canines. Staring at Dean, he made a guttural sound deep in his barrel chest, his mouth bleeding spittle onto the floor. The wet slap of dripping saliva echoed through the antechamber.

Dean glared at the animal in its glowing red eyes, his mouth twisting hard on a snarl of his own. A searing flash of primal fury lanced through him.

"Just try it, Fido," he growled, "I'll force-feed you your own tail."

A chorus of excited chatter boiled up from the demons spectating outside the cage.

The hellhound opened his long jaws and snapped at the air. Dean caught of whiff of his breath. It stank the way old pennies tasted, all grime and copper. The hunter dragged his nose across his shoulder to wipe away the scent. A tingle of excitement zipped along his scalp. A smile surprised him by hooking into his lip.

He _needed_ this, he realized. He was itching for a fight. His rage had been building for hours and hours with nowhere to go.

Now he had _Bundy_. He looked the snarling hellhound in the eye.

"Have it your way, lobo," he said. He grabbed the chain the hung from his wrists and pulled it tight between both hands.

" _Let's dance_."

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Reviews are loved.

Follow for more.

~DWC


	3. Day 1

Dear Readers - I've been gone for a long while, and a lot has happened. I've married a beautiful woman, been promoted at work, hit by a car, healed from that, and have spent the year on an amazing personal journey (doesn't that sound hokey?), but I'm back once again. Please enjoy the next installment of Bad Penny Green.

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Bad Penny Green

Day 1

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Castiel awoke to the whisper of lit candlewicks and the clink of ingredients being stirred in a bowl. He shifted where he lay, feeling pillows under his body and the pull of crushed velvet against the small of his back. His eyes peeled open and blinked away the grit, squinting.

Everything hurt. Looking up at the ceiling, he tightened and relaxed different muscles in his vessel in a creaking parody of a stretch, trying to get relief. He could barely move. His limbs were wooden, his skin stiff and tight. He felt cold, and his head pounded. The demonic sigils written into his flesh prickled painfully just beneath the surface, ready to erupt at their conjurer's passing thought. More than anything, though, he was completely and utterly exhausted.

From across the room, he caught the sound of a spoon being tapped against the edge of a basin. Swallowing, he turned his head towards the noise and narrowed his eyes to make out the lithe figure standing among the room's sea of candles. The red hair was the give-away, as usual.

Castiel watched Rowena as she ladled a wine-colored liquid out of the cauldron and into a bowl, sprinkling it with a fine powder. Wiping her fingers on a cloth, she gathered up the bowl and a platter of steaming towels and drifted over to where he lay, which appeared to be on her four-poster bed. The mattress sank slightly as the witch sat down beside him.

"Hello, there, dear," she greeted him sweetly, "I didn't expect you to be awake so soon. Bit of a mixed blessing, I'm afraid."

"Where am I?" he asked. His voice was wrecked and breaking. He had to swallow after he spoke to hold down a cough.

Rowena placed her things on the side table and leaned in to look him over.

"You're in Hell," she said lightly, feeling his forehead and looking at his gums.

Cas frowned and tried to shift away.

"More specifically," he pressed.

The witch looked around.

"More specifically? You're in my chambers, in Hell. Which _level_ of Hell, I'm not entirely sure. They all tend to look the same after a fashion." She smiled.

Cas grimaced.

With a shrug, Rowena turned to pick up the bowl of dark, steaming liquid off the bedside table, swirling in gently in her palm. Sniffing it, she made a satisfied sound and offered it to the angel.

"Drink," she told him.

Cas eyed the bowl suspiciously. His gaze moved slowly from its contents to the witch.

"Why would I do that?" he asked.

Rowena frowned. She lowered the bowl just a touch.

"You're going to drink this," she said, "because you look—and therefore must feel—absolutely atrocious, and this potion will make you feel—and therefore look—much better." She pushed the bowl towards him again. When Cal continued to stare at her with exhausted skepticism, she sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Fine," she snapped, resting the potion in her lap, "let me put it this way, then: it's not my job to make you miserable. _My_ job to keep you alive and well enough so Fergus can have his fun. He would do _unspeakable_ things to me, his own _mother_ , if I did something to cheat him of that. _This_ ," she sloshed her bowl full of potion, "is only a healing tincture of the magical sort, nothing more. Now. _Drink_."

Feeling something adjacent to mollification, Cas struggled up onto his elbow and held out a reluctant hand. Rowena smiled and leaned in, helping him drink the contents of her potion bowl down to the dregs. The liquid was sweet and oddly smoky, tasting like herbs, wine, and honey, with a faint aftertaste of blood. Cas grimaced and sputtered on the last swallow, feeling the potion roil in his stomach. Its effects were instant and odd, though not unpleasant. His aches and pains faded to nothing, and the bones of his vessel hummed as they poured fresh blood into his veins. He shivered as he healed.

Rowena saw his reaction and wrinkled her nose in understanding.

"Bit strange, isn't it?"

Cas coughed into his hand again and cleared his throat. He nodded, "Yes, a bit."

He settled back into the pillows with a sigh.

Rowena made a soft, satisfied noise as she set the empty potion bowl aside. "Now," she said, "Let's get you cleaned up."

Picking up one of the steaming towels she'd brought to his nightstand, she unfurled it with a snap and leaned in to press it against his face. Castiel recoiled, suspicious.

"What are you—?"

"Sit still. You stink," Rowena snipped, and dabbed along his jaw with the towel. Again, Cas began to tilt his head away, but he stopped mid-protest when he realized how nice the heat and steam felt.

"Hm."

Rowena rolled her eyes.

"Yes, 'hm,'" she teased, mopping filth off his forehead, "Now, be a dear and quit fussing while I try to finish this up."

Grumbling, Cas obeyed. When she was finished cleaning him up, Rowena

"Feeling better?" she asked.

Cas massaged his brow with the heel of his hand before nodding. "Yes. Thank you."

"Well," Rowena dusted off her hands, "Enjoy it while you can. Fergus has really got his knickers in a twist over this First Blade business, among other things. I expect you're in for your fair share of trouble for the next long while."

Cas rolled onto his side and forced himself upright on the bed with a groan. Gritting his teeth, he held his ribs. His side was still tight and tender from his wounds, even with the worst of the damage healed. Curious, he slowly pulled his shirt aside and poked gingerly in the places where the bullet holes had once been. Rowena saw what he was doing and tsked, smacking his hand away.

"Don't touch it!" she scolded, "I don't want you undoing all my hard work."

Castiel let his shirt fall closed.

"What _did_ you do to me, exactly?"

Rowena smiled over her shoulder at him as she stood up and returned to putting corks back into bottles, storing them away in her apothecary.

"I healed you," she flipped her hair over her shoulder, "Used some alchemy to transmute that bullet in your side into water. Drained it right out. _Then_ I cast an old druid charm to knit your wounds back together. That potion I gave you to drink helped replace the blood you lost and take away a bit of your pain."

Cas frowned. Puzzlement wrote itself all over his face as he stared at the witch as she puttered about.

"That's awfully… _benign_ of you," he said. When he saw Rowena smirk, he added a quick backhand: "I didn't know witches could actually be _helpful_."

Now it was Rowena's turn to frown. She paused, wiping her hands on a cloth before throwing it down.

"Wot?" she asked, putting a hand on her hip, "Did you think being a witch was all 'curse' this and 'hex' that? You know, we don't lay about plucking petals off of daisies to decide which person we'll next make piss acid or cough up razor blades. The _first_ witches were healers, anyway, just _herbalists_."

Cas laid back with a groan, his arm wrapped around his tender ribs.

"Witches consort with demons," he grumbled, "They summon hell spawn into the world to siphon off their power for their own Earthly gains."

This, Rowena had to concede, and she did so with a tinkling laugh.

"Well, Black Witches do, sure," she relented, "They can be a nasty bunch, what with their sacrifices and their vengeful spells and whatnot. But _every_ group has their baddies. _Most_ witches are White Witches. Naturalist types, you know the like. They dance naked and listen to trees and leave cream out for fairies. They're harmless, and so is their magic. Getting their power from Nature like they do, it tends to be of a weaker sort, but there's nothing dark about it. I learned all that I know about healing from them."

She snapped debris off a runed tablecloth before folding it twice over and storing it in her linen cabinet. Castiel watched her closely.

"If White Witches are so harmless, why would they school someone like _you_ in their arts?"

"Someone like me?" she closed the cabinet door, shooting him a sharp look, "What do you mean by that, exactly? Just who do you believe me to be, anyhow?"

"A Black Witch."

There was a hiss, and suddenly each candle flame in the room flared upwards as it was touched by Rowena's anger. The witch glared at the angel, her eyes dark and her hands fisted.

"I am _not_ a Black Witch," she seethed, "I may have done some things—used some spells—that I'm not terribly proud of, but I'm by no means some black magic _monster_."

"Well, you're no White Witch, either."

There was silence for a long, tense moment while the pair stared at each other challengingly. Finally, Rowena deflated. "No," shook her head softly, "No, I supposed I'm not." The hissing in the room died down as the candles stopped raging and returned to their normal burn. "I know far too much about the dark arts for that."

"You've done terrible, _horrible_ things."

Rowena nodded again, eyebrows raised as she remembered.

"Aye, that I have," she said, "I've just admitted as much." She looked up. "But so have _you_ , if I recall correctly. That makes us _both_ a special shade of grey, doesn't it?"

It was Castiel's turn to be chagrined. He, too, looked down and away.

"Alright," he muttered, "What are you, then? A Grey Witch?"

"No, dear. I'm a survivalist."

Cas grimaced. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Rowena sighed. Finally finished cleaning, she strolled slowly back to Cas' beside, her bejeweled fingers knitted together.

"It _means_ ," she said, voice stern, "that I do what I must to protect what I care about. I feel like you, of all creatures, should be able to relate to that impetus."

Again, Castiel had to look away. Shame crawled up his spine like an insect.

"I _know_ what you've done in the name of the 'greater good,'" the witch went on, "I know what you're _going_ to do. The only difference between you and me is that you have the Winchesters to protect. I only have myself."

That rebuke was too well-targeted, and Castiel's shame suddenly erupted into bald anger. He lashed out, his voice venomous.

"Well, then, none of what you've done has really been _worth it_ , has it?" he snapped.

Rowena went rigid, looking like she'd been slapped. Cas regretted his words instantly, opening his mouth to apologize. White-faced, the witch raised a hand sharply to cut him off. She spoke to him, but when she did, both her eyes and voice were hard.

"Button your shirt, angel," she bit out, "I think it's about time we got you back to Fergus."

"Wait—," Castiel tried again, but Rowena had already turned on heel and stalked from the room, snapping her fingers at the door. Several demon guards entered, their glowering eyes turned towards the angel. Cas sighed, fear rising, as he realized that his brief reprieve was already over.

He was on his way to see the King of Hell.

* * *

In the darkness of the pit, Dean pitched himself to the ground and rolled sideways, throwing up a cloud of dust as he tucked his shoulder and twisted back onto his feet. Massive blue-black teeth gnashed the air just inches from his ear as Bundy lead a violent lunge with his crushing jaws. Dean could feel the hellhound's hot breath bloom across the side of his face, stinking of rotting flesh. Gulping, he sprang back another step, sweating at the near miss. Above the pit, demons were on their feet and flailing, cheering or moaning depending on where they had placed their bets. Dean did his best to ignore them.

Beside him, Bundy shifted his weight and whipped around, his red eyes sighting Dan like a laser. His wolfish, undead face was alive with rabid frustration. Unlike demons, hellhounds played no games. Bundy was ready to kill and was obviously unused to working so hard for his taste of blood. Gaze fixed on the hunter, the hound snarled and coiled its muscles to attack.

With his own teeth bared and his heart hammering, Dean grunted and swung his clasped hands like a cudgel, striking Bundy just below the eye. The chain around Dean's wrists followed the blow and tore up the side of the hound's face and into his ear, splitting the flesh against his skull. Bundy reared and howled at the sting of the open wound, twisting away from Dean and shaking out his head in a spray of black blood.

Some of the fluid caught the hunter in the mouth. Dean quickly dragged a hand across his lips and spat viciously into the dirt, trying to rid himself of a taste that was something like motor oil and a lot like burnt rubber. The smell was horrendous. It coated his throat, making him retch.

For a moment, he and Bundy just faltered there, both of them hunched, panting and miserable. Dean stood bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing through his mouth and trying not to gag, Bundy whining in pain and dragging his torn ear against the ground. It was in that moment that Dean realized how tired the pair of them were.

The hunter had no concept of how long the fight had been carrying on, but the ache in his limbs told him it had been ages. Everything lasted for an age and a day in Hell, though. It could have been minutes since he'd been thrown in with Bundy—it could have been hours, or even days. There was really no way of knowing. He looked up through the bars of the pit's cage into a sea of thirsty black eyes. A flash of exhausted fury flickered in Dean's chest. Straightening up, he spat once more into the dirt and took a few steps towards the wounded Bundy.

The hellhound saw Dean coming and righted himself, half of his face now plastered in a wet mix of blood and filth. Once again, he wound his limbs tight, ready to spring. Once again, Dean didn't give him the chance.

Without warning, the hunter struck out with his leg, swinging his hips to deliver a crushing roundhouse kick to the side of Bundy's head. Dean's boot connected with a crunch. The hellhound yelped and staggered back on its massive paws, tonguing broken teeth out of his shattered mouth. Blood welled out of his jaws. Blinking rapidly, the demon dog tried to make for Dean once more, but he could only manage to wobble and list sideways, obviously concussed. It was just a moment's opening, but Dean took it.

Rallying his strength, the hunter bellowed and threw himself on top of the demon dog, straddling him like a bull and looping his chains around the creature's neck. Grabbing with both hands, he leaned back and pulled tight.

Bucking and snarling, the hellhound threw its weight left and right, doing its best to toss Dean off his back. The animal was frantic, wheezing against the pressure of the chain around his neck. He sprang forward and sprinted around the edge of the pit, dragging Dean up against the wall, but the hunter held fast.

At last, the hound could run no longer and collapsed, suffocating, to the floor, taking the hunter with him.

Falling on his side, Bundy's enormous weight slammed down on Dean's leg and the hunter winced as he felt the sickening creak of a near-break shoot up into his hip. Still, he did not let go. Grinding his teeth, Dean pulled harder. Bundy's paws flailed, claws dragging furrows in the walls and floor. Blood arched from his face and mouth as he thrashed, splattering Dean and the walls of the pit. Congested sounds of agony and panic began to gurgle inside the hellhound's throat and snout and the hunter realized it was nearly over. Dean thrashed when the animal spasmed and managed to free his trapped leg. Locking his heels under Bundy's jowls, the hunter arched backwards as far and hard as he could, grimacing as the demon dog's death throws jolted the chains around his wrists.

The final struggle lasted less than a minute. With Bundy doomed and fading, the last moments of the fight were anticlimactic. The hellhound slumped against Dean's garrote, slavering and stiff, eyes rolling wildly, until he finally expired and folded into a heavy, twitching heap of deadweight. Dean let out a massive held breath and let go of his white-knuckle grip on the chain.

It was over. Silence fell.

Untangling himself from the animal's corpse, Dean stumbled a few steps away and then collapsed onto his back, breathing hard. He closed his eyes. A warm, slack sensation fell over his body, feeling something like a sexual afterglow but without any of the pleasure. He ached, tingling with fatigue. Above him, the gallery of demons was briefly quiet, stunned by the results of the fight. Then, they erupted. There were applause and cheers. Losers tossed their betting chits to the floor and crushed them underfoot.

Dean caught himself nearly smiling. He quickly quashed the sick sliver of him that relished his victory, but it wasn't easy. Opening his eyes again, he looked across the floor of the pit at Bundy's black, hulking remains. Already, the hellhound's flesh was dissolving into foul-smelling smoke, leaving an onyx skeleton behind. Rolling onto his knees, Dean got carefully to his feet and shuffled over to Bundy's body. Looking down, he toed open the dead hellhounds jaws and nudged a loose canine with his boot. Reaching down, he yanked the tooth from the demon dog's jaws. The canine glistened in his hand, translucent and occluded, like blue amber. It was heavy, and more than half the length of Dean's palm. The hunter dropped it into his pocket.

The mark on his arm was quiet, but he felt an eerie pressure building behind Rowena's seal. With one of the runes blown off by his anger and a second now withering away, the hunter could feel the sparest tendrils of evil picking their way along the arcane dam that held them back, looking for weaknesses. A vision of empty eye sockets and a wide, jester's smile swam in the back of his mind.

Above him, the huge metal pit grate swung back with a scream. Dean looked up. Several hulking demons that the hunter recognized as Crowley's bodyguards had appeared at the pit's edge. They unrolled a rope ladder and threw it down to him.

"Get up here," one ordered him gruffly.

"The King wants to see you."

* * *

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~DWC


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